I have a love for poetry,
that has grown into an obsession.
i write about my love life,
or my friends or me in a depression.

the words just come naturally from my tongue,
as the night turns to daylight.
and if someone told me,
words were merely nothing,
i would end up hauled up in a ball in such fright.

as a normal day goes by,
no one may think anything of it.
but i could write a whole books,
about a young girl who did nothing all day but sit.

and as i look out my window,
the cold wind corrests me, 
leaving me with nothing but a simple taste of peace and
serenity. 

and as the birds sing of love, 
i lie in my seat, 
among the room of peers, 
haunted with this bearing thought, 
on what will happen next...

but then as the sun kissed snowflakes 
attached themselves to my hair, 
the heavy breathing in my heart 
was all that i could bear.

she cries and she weeps,
and i wither and i ache.
i think over the words in my head,
before i say them for goodness sake.

im paranoid on my own self,
obsessed with the deal of writing.
it is all i ever was,
ever am,
and ever will be,
in the arts of writing and drawing.

i sculpt in my heart,
and as my mind sets with ease.
the waves in the lake,
have to settle down so the village will stay pleased.

i cant live with this life,
of a teenage drama session.
but all i know is,
that i am caught up in this poetic obsession...

I LOVE POETRY...



                                       ...A LITTLE TOO MUCH.